


You're welcome

by Anneth_is_alright



Category: Youtube RPF
Genre: Crack-ish, Drabbles, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anneth_is_alright/pseuds/Anneth_is_alright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conler friendship (sic!) drabbles</p>
<p>"Just wanna let y'all know that @ConnorFranta is a horny little bitch with a toe fetish <3"<br/>Tyler has never been more satisfied with a tweet before.<br/>NicolaFranta retweeted this.<br/>Tyler hears a pained growl from the floor and smiles contently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're welcome

**Author's Note:**

> Strictly platonic Conler (as much as the term 'platonic' could be applied to Tyler)
> 
> I don't know.

When Connor sinks down on his knees, Tyler raises his eyebrows in surprise.

Not that the thought has never crossed his mind, because it totally has at least once (three times, but hey, who's counting?).

He _is_ Tyler Oakley after all, and he can't help the way his brain is wired.

The list of Tyler's kinks is long (almost as long as his dick, Tyler would say only half-jokingly), but it sure as hell does not involve hardcore exhibitionism.

And this might be a problem because Connor is kneeling in front of him right on the sidewalk of one of the busiest streets in Los Angeles.

That is probably a fitting way to propose to someone, Tyler thinks, and he is immensely flattered, and that's exceptionally sweet of Connor, and it would make such a great vlog too, except one little thing.

Connor and Tyler aren't dating, so unless Connor's personal brand of coffee has killed the majority of his brain cells...

"Tyler, look," the boy in question calls, crouching in front of something.

A flower.

A goddamn flower, growing in the middle of the pavement.

You don't understand, _a flower_.

Tyler almost wants to stomp on it, crash it with his tiny foot, and jump for good measure, but he's a pacifist (that really doesn't have to do with anything), PETA supporter (although he's ultimately Team Gale) and all-in-all not a very violent person (being 5'5" doesn't leave much room for being physical).

When he's sober, that is. Which he happens to be at the moment, you're welcome, flower, so he doesn't do anything of the above.

And then Connor pulls out his phone.

Lord have mercy.

Connor is on his fours now (on his threes, to be exact, since his right hand is clutching the phone), and he's pressing the shutter button of the camera like crazy.

Tyler sincerely contemplates whether he really _is_ crazy.

A car honk blares, and a douche-y looking guy in a goddamn Ferrari wolf-whistles at Connor's position. The waiters from the Chinese restaurant across the road have gathered by the window and are now giggling in their hands. An elderly lady with a labradoodle on the leash gives them a stink eye, which Tyler returns with a matching fervor.

Get a dog that's not a fucking joke and then judge other people, he mentally hisses.

Aloud, he says another thing, "Connor, let's go."

"It's beautiful," is all response he gets, spoken in a voice, as if this goddamn flower is Connor Franta's firstborn child.

The waiters are straight laughing at them at this point, the labradoodle is barking, there is a couple of young girls lurking around who look suspiciously like fans...

So Tyler decides to fuck it all.

Figuratively, of course, because his long list of kinks doesn't include bestiality, and even if it did, _labradoodles_. Ew.

So, forsaking his 300-dollar beige shorts, Tyler drops down on his ass and crosses his legs in the middle of one of the busiest streets in Los Angeles, right next to his friend, who's taking an Instagram picture of a flower.

Fuck what other people think of them.

And fuck that labradoodle in particular.

Figuratively.

***

Connor has a routine of a 60-year old man, that is not a big secret. He himself calls it 'productive', but no person in their goddamn mind would voluntarily wake up before 11 a.m.

That's why Tyler perks up, when his phone rings at 2 in the morning and the caller i.d. reads 'Connie Frannie'.

"Hey, Con, what's up?" asks Tyler, but he receives an answer he doesn't expect.

"Who are you?"

That makes Tyler burst out laughing, because only Connor would do something like that. Recognizing the cackle, the guy asks dubiously, "Tyler?"

"No, this is Patrick," Tyler says, cringing inwardly, because he knows the joke is wasted on Connor.

Speaking of wasted.

In the background Tyler hears music, yelling, glasses clanking; and if Connor's response time is anything to judge, he's out there partying, and he's been drinking (watermelon, if by watermelon you mean vodka) for a long period of time.

God bless, Tyler thinks, the poor guy needs it.

"Tyler?" Connor asks again, this time with a tinge of shyness in his voice. "I was calling..."

It doesn't take a genius to realize who Connor has been trying to call initially, but Tyler prefers to ignore it for a time being. "Where are you, pretty boy?"

Connor hums in contemplation.

He hums for so long that he forgets that he's supposed to answer the question, and it essentially turns into an Om mantra chanting.

Tyler rolls his eyes, waiting for the boy on the line to run out of breath.

It takes him more than a minute.

Fucking swimmers.

Tyler tries once again, "Where are you? Do you need me to pick you up?"

"I'm at the book launch at this hotel. Maritime? Marilyn? Mmmmmm," and he's back to chanting.

Now it sounds like a voice warmup that Tyler's acting coach makes him do before every red carpet event.

With one minor difference.

Tyler's acting lessons never end with sounds of vomiting.

Damning his phone provider for the exceptional audio quality and o2l boys for writing so goddamn many books (who'd have thought that these boys would turn out so literary?), Tyler grabs his keys and exits his apartment.

Patrick is out to safely return his SpongeBob back to the pineapple under the sea.

***

Okay, it has always been a dream of Tyler's to be a fashion model, but this is beyond ridiculous: he is slowly turning into a living and breathing Common Culture ad.

What is the point of having a walk-in wardrobe if you wear the same thing over and over?

What is the point of styling your hair for straight 20 minutes if you are going to put a baseball cap on anyway?

And it's not like Tyler gets money from this brand deal.

All he gets is puppy-dog eyes and an excited smile when Connor tumbles into his apartment, excitedly carrying (he's the only person ever to _carry_ stuff excitedly) another box with new products.

Okay, and maybe this goddamn sweater is really soft, and Tyler looks good in black.

Scratch that, Tyler looks good in everything.

Especially in this Common Culture baseball tee.

God damn it.

With a frustrated huff, Tyler marches over to his closet, grabs the black t-shirt he bought at Target his freshman year in college, pairs it up with the plainest jeans he owns and leaves for the meeting.

Suck it, Common Culture, Tyler can wear whatever he wants to.

When he arrives at the office, he receives an apprehensive glare from Lisa, but she refrains from commenting and looks back down to her blackberry.

Korey isn't so gracious though, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Ty?"

Tyler channels his inner Vivien Leigh (not 'A Streetcar Named Desire' Vivien Leigh, but 'Gone with the Wind' Vivien Leigh) and answers evenly, "What do you mean?"

"You look like you got dressed in the dark," Korey replies, clearly abusing his privilege of Tyler's best friend.

Lisa snorts loudly, but Tyler prefers to think that this is because of an extremely funny business email she has just gotten. Yeah, that.

"Fuck off," is all he can muster.

When he gets home, exhausted, drained out after meetings, calls and a podcast recording, he feels like he needs some down time.

He draws a bath, throwing in a bomb (grenade? missile?) thingy that Zoe got him at one point, and picks up a candle to bring it with him.

He stares at it for a very long time.

God damn it.

Common Culture - one, Tyler Oakley - zero.

***

People get injuries, and this is what people do: sometimes shit happens, and it's no one's fault.

Someone can break an arm while bungee jumping, another could sprain an ankle during a mind-blowing sex or get a cut when retrieving a lost kitten from a tree or whatnot.

Tyler breaks his toe.

What is more humiliating is that it's not even his big toe.

What is the most humiliating is that he breaks it in the food court in the mall, trying to cut in front of someone in the line for froyo.

Karma.

Well, if it were karma, he would have slipped on the froyo someone else has dropped.

In this reality, Tyler just slams his foot in the corner of the counter with the force that was uncalled for (5'5" tall pacifist, remember?).

Korey still not forgiven after 'getting dressed in the dark' incident, there is a limited amount of people to text and even more limited amount of people who text back.

"You're ridiculous," Connor says, putting down the wine bottle he brought with him and flopping onto the couch next to Tyler.

Tyler makes a point of wiggling his bandaged toes, trying to (and if Connor's face is anything to judge, succeeding at) doing it as obnoxiously as possible.

His painkillers are _strong_.

"How am I going to get laid now?" he asks with a faux-sigh.

Connor frowns, "What do your toes have to do with that?"

Tyler wiggles them again, "They are my greatest asset."

He lets it sink and counts to five.

When he's about to start counting to five for the third time, Connor's jaw finally drops in understanding and slight disgust, "Oh my god."

"You should try it before dismissing it," Tyler replies energetically, "You never know what would tickle your fancy."

Connor looks down at Tyler's toes and - oh god - he blushes.

Tyler oinks.

Usually he would go for a subtle moose's mating call or a dignified balloon-letting-air-out noise, but this time he oinks.

Because Connor is _considering_ it.

So Tyler - ever the pacifist - pushes him with all the force his 5'5" body possesses, and Connor almost falls off the couch.

"When I said you should try it, I did not suggest you try it with _me_ ," Tyler snorts, failing to be intimidating, "Thirsty bitch."

Connor, his top half dangling off the couch awkwardly, kicks him in the forearm, and Tyler isn't entirely sure whether the boy's face is red because of a blood rush, incessant giggling or embarrassment. Possibly, a combination of all three.

Tyler squeals, exclaiming "My innocence!"

Another kick.

"My chastity!"

How does he manage to always get the same spot?

"My virtue!"

The last kick is so forceful that the impetus Connor gains makes him fall off the couch onto the carpet on the floor.

He decides to stay there for a while.

Still laughing maniacally, Tyler promises, "I can't wait to tell _all_ our friends what a pervert you actually are." Now that he's out of kicking distance, he's fearless, "I'm gonna snapchat this," he yells excitedly, "No, I'm gonna tweet it."

Connor on the floor just flails his arms defeatedly.

**"Just wanna let y'all know that @ConnorFranta is a horny little bitch with a toe fetish <3"**

Tyler has never been more satisfied with a tweet before.

Connor's phone goes off, and he groans when he reads what Tyler has posted.

Tyler hits the refresh button.

**NicolaFranta retweeted this.**

Tyler hears a pained growl from the floor and smiles contently.

***

Next morning Tyler wakes up to a sight of a grumpy and extremely hungover Connor Franta on his couch, who yesterday single-handedly bore the brunt of a wine bottle that didn't quite agree with Tyler's meds.

So they do what every duo of red-blooded American gays would do when left to their own devices: they watch 'Sex and The City' and eat nachos.

"You're such a Charlotte," Tyler drawls, observing the poor girl's quest for the 'true love'. "Who am I? Am I a Carrie? I'm flaky like her, but then, I could be a Samantha with all the hot guys hitting on me."

Connor shoves nachos in his mouth, "You're - what's his name? - the bald gay guy. Stanford!"

It takes Tyler a second to register who Connor is talking about. " _No_ ," the conviction in his voice is unparalleled, "No fucking way."

"He dated a pornstar. Sounds familiar, right?" Connor wiggles his eyebrows pointedly.

"Fuck off," Tyler grumps, taking the plate with snacks away from his friend, if he could call him his friend at this point.

Connor surprisingly ignores the food that is being taken away, quietly saying instead, his gaze soft, "You know, Ty, thank you. For, you know, everything you've been doing."

Like a true Samantha that he is, Tyler pretends he hasn't heard anything and turns away, hoping that a Charlotte on the couch next to him won't notice a small smile playing on his lips.

You're welcome, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Labradoodles.


End file.
